Out With Bathwater

Think about it.

When you take a bath, you are sitting in your own skin, shed and floating, a nice broth - YOU consommé --

Think you are free and clear of what you were before, but who knows what clings on, caught in the fibers of the towel you choose to hang on the curtain rail to dry for one more use before sanctification in the washing machine --

Sit in that bath, relaxing you thinking you are leaving it all behind: dandruff, soap etched with a single hair, lint from your navel, dead cells rubbed off with a lufa (don't get me started) --

Pull the plug, down the drain, flick a rag about the tub, scrub off the grey ring (of you, don't forget). You have left bits of you everywhere though you try to dismiss it - Remains backing up the pipes, sticking to the floor, bath mat, rag, tub, tiles, soap dish, that one spot in the gleaming white illusion you missed --

Leave the room, turn off the lights, but you are still there, all of you, those parts you thought erased, rinsed pure and safely on their way to the nearest Body of Water.

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